Via di Francesco, Day 6: Badia Prataglia - Santuario della Verna

Sunday May, 28
17 km
Aprx 1000 m

We started our day jovially, communicating in pantomime with our German friend, whose partner and usual translator was taking the day's stage by car. We walked down the hill through the charming alpine town of Badia Prataglia, entered the forest, and began the inevitable climb one can expect daily on the Via di Francesco. 100 meters up, my partner and I struck out from the trail in the guidebook and left our friend to the designated way.

We took a wide but overgrown path we'd found on our GPS, hoping to skirt Mount Poggio della Cesta and cut our elevation gain for the day by 400 meters. Our chosen path cleared quickly, climbed steeply up a rocky slope for about 50 meters, then leveled out, leaving a thick, soft blanket of dry leaves beneath our feet. The way was frequently muddy, but the mud preserved hundreds of animal tracks: deer, boar, fox, and badger. I even found a stray porcupine quill.

After a pleasant stroll, the path emerged from the shade of the forest beside a sunlit meadow full of wildflowers, and rose next to a farmhouse.  Sloping downhill, we found ourselves on a country road on the inside of a gate; though there was space next to it to exit, we noted that there was a "Do Not Enter" sign on the outside. Too late to make any difference, of course, but we hoped we hadn't disturbed anyone. Regardless, the dirt road soon connected with a paved road into Frassineta, and effectively cut our elevation gain, as hoped.

A bit more climbing up an exposed, rocky hillside took us to the top of Mount Poggio della Forca, and a very steep descent on the other side deposited us in Rimbocchi  for lunch and a rest. It was then that the real work of the day began: the brutally steep 700 meter, 5 km, ascent to Santuario della Verna, St Francis' fabled mountain retreat.

Here to fore, I've always had the impression that Saint Francis was a laid back kind of guy. A hippy if you will, centuries before there was such a thing. He walked, he meditated, he spent long hours alone in nature contemplating the divine; he preached the benefits of such a life. I saw him as more medieval Jack Kerouac than Peter Damian-style proponent of self-flagellation and deprivation. Today's climb made me wonder if he didn't have more in common with the latter.

A quarter of the way up the hill, I cursed Sandy Brown, the writer of our guide book. Half way up, I cursed my own stupid, romantic life decisions that had brought me to this place. Three-quarters of the way up, I cursed Saint Francis himself. Near the top, I cursed the rocks, the trees, and even the hundreds of little tweeting yellow birds flitting so damnably joyously from tree to tree while I labored painfully upward in the Tuscan heat.

I cursed until I was out of breath, then began to laugh at myself. I laughed hysterically, til near collapse, at the ridiculousness and uselessness of my cursing the birds and rocks and sky. When I was nearly out of laughter, I pictured Saint Francis laboring up the same hillside, lashing himself with nettles and thorny berry vines, and started laughing again. I laughed and climbed. I was still giggling when I finally reached the narrow ridge and decided, perhaps, the real Saint Francis was somewhere between the the Kerouac-hippy of my imagination and the self-flagelant I'd imagined on the steep mountainside.

Traversing the long, narrow ridge, my loathing of the tweeting birds retreated. We crossed a state road and entered the final leg to the Santuario. One last push up a steep climb and we emerged into a shady forest glen, punctuated with massive, mossy stones, and cool recesses. This. This was his forest, his sanctuary-- we were sure of it. We didn't need a map or guide to tell us. There is no mistaking the deep peace and abiding silence of the place.

Soon, we caught a narrow glimpse of the monastery on the rocky precipice immediately over our heads. The muted  sound of latin chanting drifted down to us. We rounded the rock and, I swear, I climbed the last steep cobblestone road to Santuario della Verna without a single word of reproach for the mountain, or Saint Frances.

We attended a beautifully simple, moving mass in the Chapel of the Stigmata, and listened to a sermon on pilgrimage as a metaphor for life. We soaked in the peace of the Sanctuary. We stuffed ourselves with truffle risotto at a communal table. We astonished an elderly Italian couple with the length of our pilgrimage and the size of our appetites. Then we fell asleep, exhausted, within the quiet monastery walls-- nettle burns, thorny berry scratches, and screaming muscles forgotten.